1

Spring had returned to the pretty Victorian seaside town of Micklewick Bay, a welcome respite after the weeks of lashing rain and gale-force winds that had battered the coastline. Above, the sky was a broad splash of clear blue, the sun a ball of cheerful yellow, its rays glinting off the ripples of the North Sea. A flotilla of little fishing boats bobbed about on the waves while seagulls circled above, hoping for rich pickings, their piercing cries scooped up by the gentle breeze and carried along the bay.

Happiness raced through Florrie Appleton's veins as she made her way to work along the top promenade that Monday morning. The wheels of her vintage bike whirred along the cycle path, skimming over the flagstones, her scarf flying out behind her. She pushed her glasses back up her nose with a gloved finger and sucked in a lungful of the fresh, salty air, a smile spreading across her face as her eyes drank in the familiar sight of the beach that stretched out to the left of her. The tide was rushing towards the bank of shingle that edged the shoreline, culminating in a frothy mass, before scurrying back. The usual handful of die-hard early morning surfers were floating on the breakers by the lanky metal legs of the pier. They were always there, whatever the weather, and from this vantage point, dipping in and out of the waves in their shiny black wetsuits, they could easily pass for a bob of seals.

Florrie pedalled harder, spurred on by a surge of exhilaration, her brunette bob fanning out from beneath her red beret. Up ahead, she saw a man wearing a long grey overcoat and flat cap who'd strayed into the cycle lane. His head was bowed and he was ambling along as if he had all the time in the world.

‘S'cuse me!'

She gave a quick jingle of the cycle bell and he jumped out of the way, scowling and almost dropping the mobile phone in his hand.

‘Sorry!' she said, pulling an apologetic face as she passed, a ping of recognition firing in her mind. It disappeared before she had a chance to catch hold of it and put a name to the face. She frowned; it would niggle her until she remembered where she knew him from.

Florrie loved days like these, invigorating and brimming with optimism. It was as if the small seaside town was emerging from the long winter months, unfurling, fresh and ready to face the new week ahead. Already, her mind was running through the list of jobs she was keen to tackle when she arrived at The Happy Hartes Bookshop. And I know exactly where to start , she thought as the dusty bookshelves piled high with second-hand books in the storeroom pushed for priority. Though she knew her suggestions of what to do with said books would be met with resistance from her boss, Mr Harte, she figured it was always worth a try.

Her nose twitched as the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans pulled her out of her musings. ‘Hi, Nadia.' She waved at a well-wrapped up young woman who was busy setting out chairs and tables around the Crows' Nest coffee kiosk. It was situated just next to the steps – all one hundred and ninety-nine of them – that zig-zagged their way up from the bottom promenade; a welcome sight to those who'd braved the climb and finally reached the top, legs aching, gasping for breath and desperate to quench their thirst.

‘Morning, Florrie. Lovely day at last!' Nadia smiled, pushing her hair off her face.

‘It's gorgeous.' Florrie beamed.

She pushed on, smiling and nodding at the slew of familiar faces she saw every day, walking their dogs or taking an early morning run. She glanced up at the imposing Victorian houses across the road to her right. Five storeys high with tall, looming chimneys and exquisitely carved corbels and lintels, each afforded a much-coveted vista of the spectacular seafront. Despite most having been converted into flats years ago, they still clung onto the haughty air they'd displayed in more affluent times when they were inhabited by the well-heeled members of Micklewick Bay's society. Florrie often wondered what they'd been like in their heyday.

Standing alongside them, occupying occupying an entire block of its own, was the vast Micklewick Majestic Hotel. Not so very long ago it had been the jewel in the crown of Micklewick Bay; a place where anyone who was anyone came to be seen, where music tinkled softly in the background and conversation was murmured in such hushed tones you could hear a pin drop. But in recent years it had fallen on hard times and now looked neglected and forlorn, with boarded-up windows, tiles slipping from its roof, and a battered "For Sale" sign flapping noisily in the breeze. It hadn't taken long for it to become an eye-sore. If the rumours were to be believed, its owner had lost his fortune owing to his gambling addiction and now the sharks were circling, waiting to sink their teeth into their pound of flesh.

As the path swept round, it opened up the view of the bay where the old part – or Old Micklewick as it was known to locals – was nestled down by the beach at the foot of Skitey Bank. Micklewick Bay had its origins there, in the tiny cluster of whitewashed cottages that teetered on the precipitous cliff side, smoke curling from their chimneys, their once thatched roofs now replaced with cheerful orange pantiles. To Florrie, it looked as if all it would take was a mere nudge to send them sliding right into the sea. A characterful pub called The Jolly Sailors sat amongst the ancient, cobbled rows. It was a favourite Friday night haunt of Florrie and her friends; they'd spent many happy hours there. The little area was steeped in history with stories a-plenty of smugglers and pirates and a tunnel leading from the "Jolly" – as it was affectionately known – right up to the grand house of the legendary Micklewick gentleman, Benjamin Fitzgilbert, who'd led a double life as a member of the landed gentry and a prolific smuggler. It wasn't until Victorian times, when the well-to-do, whose pockets had suddenly become well-lined thanks to the burgeoning success of the industry that clanged away several miles up the coast, had cottoned-on to its charms. Soon, building began in earnest, and the new town sprang up in a matter of months, perched on the opposite side of the bay where it appeared to be looking down its nose at the old part of town.

But the view that made Florrie's soul tingle every morning, no matter what the weather, was that of the mighty Thorncliffe. The towering cliff stood majestically, like a giant sentry guarding the coastline, shoulder-to-shoulder with the cliffs that lined the North Yorkshire Coast. It stirred something deep inside her whenever she set eyes on it. Local historians claimed its name was derived from Thor, god of Thunder, in a nod to its powerful presence, and judging by the booming sound the waves made as they crashed against its feet in stormy weather, Florrie could well believe it.

Sunlight raced over the patchwork fields of Thorncliffe Farm spread out on the cliff top, skimming over the row of white- washed coastguards' cottages and, in the field behind them, the quaint Clifftop Cottage, home of Florrie's friends, Maggie and Bear Marsay. The cottage appeared to squat down into the ground, bracing itself against the wild weather that often hurled itself straight from the sea. The little building looked every bit as achingly cosy from the outside as it was inside.

Florrie took a sharp left, her breath coming out in short bursts as she pedalled along the road that led to the town centre and the shops. ‘Hi, Dennis,' she said as she swerved around the postman. He was busy stacking letters in his hands as he stepped out into the road.

‘Morning, Florrie, love. Grand day.'

‘It certainly is.'

A minute later, she was in Victoria Square, cycling towards The Happy Hartes Bookshop which sat at the top end of a row of shops. It was a double-fronted building with large, bowed windows and worn black and white quarry tiles leading to a half-glazed door. She hopped off her bike, throwing a cursory glance at a tall man with dark hair and a floppy fringe who was loitering by the window. She wheeled her way towards the private door to the right of the shop that gave access to the flat above, her eyes alighting on the peeling, dull-brown paintwork. She sighed, running a finger over the windowsill; it had looked bad last year, but it hadn't fared at all well over the winter. Something needed to be done about it, and soon.

Sensing she was being watched, Florrie glanced across to find the tall man looking over. The warm tone of his skin and the sun-kissed highlights in his hair suggested he'd recently spent time in sunnier climes. Her stomach gave an unexpected flip; he was seriously "hot-to-trot", as Jasmine would say.

‘Morning.' The handsome stranger smiled at her. A friendly smile, the sort you'd give to someone you knew, though she was convinced she'd never clapped eyes on him before –there was no way she'd forget someone as out of the way good-looking as him! She quickly rifled through her brain in the hope of jogging her memory, but to no avail.

‘Morning.' She returned his smile, scanning his face, feeling somewhat surprised at the thought that there was actually something vaguely familiar about him. He looked about her age – thirty-two; was he someone she'd been at school with but hadn't seen for a while? The thought flittered through her mind but was gone before she had chance to dwell on it. Bugger!

‘Nice day,' he said in a North Yorkshire accent that had had the edges smoothed off. His smile widened, sending a cheeky little tingle running up Florrie's spine.

‘It is.' Oh, my days! It wasn't just his good looks that had put all her senses of attraction on high alert; there was something else at play here. Such a reaction was completely out of character for her and she was struggling to manage it. Calm your jets, Florrie!

‘You work here?' he asked, nodding towards the shop.

‘Mm-hmm.' She felt suddenly tongue-tied, like a teenager talking to the school heart-throb on whom she had an enormous crush. She hoped it wasn't as obvious to him as it was to her suddenly pounding heart. ‘Yes.' Where on earth is this coming from? Get a grip of yourself, woman! Don't forget about Graham!

‘Right.' He nodded, his sunny beam crinkling the corners of a pair of eyes Florrie would happily melt in. She watched him process her reply, her insides a juddery mess. ‘Sorry, I don't mean to pry, it's just… well, I used to visit here as a small boy, that's all. The bookshop has… um… special associations for me.'

‘Oh?' was all she could manage to vocalize while her brain took off, scrabbling through her memories, hoping to pin-point him, but without success. She gazed up into his eyes that she noted were a deep shade of navy-blue and framed with ridiculously long, dark lashes, though it didn't escape her notice that dark circles hung beneath them. And he really was incredibly tall – she'd put him at well over six feet – towering over her petite five-feet-two. ‘It has special associations for me too, and not just because I work here.'

He nodded again, flashing that smile and wearing an expression that, if she wasn't mistaken, looked as though he knew exactly what she meant. ‘You're keen; I see the shop doesn't open till nine-thirty.'

Florrie nodded. ‘I always arrive an hour early so I can have breakfast with my boss; it's something I've done since his wife passed away.'

‘That's very kind of you.' His smile faltered slightly, and she was sure his eyes seemed to dim.

‘Not really, Mr Harte – he's my boss – is good company, and he's been very kind to me over the years; he's actually more like family than my employer.' Their eyes locked and a frisson of attraction suddenly crackled between them, knocking her even more off kilter than she already was. She felt her cheeks burn and hoped he hadn't noticed. Clearing her throat, she asked, ‘So what brings you back to Micklewick Bay?'

He pulled his eyes away from hers, casting them down to his feet, scuffing the floor with the toe of his shoe. ‘Um…it's been a while since I was here… I just fancied a visit… wondered what the old place looked like.'

‘Right.' Florrie was intrigued but something made her reluctant to push further.

They stood in silence for a moment until she spotted the number forty-two bus heaving itself around the corner; she was usually tucking into breakfast with Mr H before that arrived. She glanced at her watch. ‘Oops! I'd best dash; Mr H will be wondering where I've got to,' she said, wishing she didn't have to tear herself away.

‘Yes, of course.' His eyes met hers again. ‘It's been nice to meet you, Florrie. I'll be sure to pop into the shop later when it's open.' He flashed a smile that made her heart skip a beat. ‘See you later.'

‘See you later.' Florrie watched him as he walked away, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his padded waxed jacket. She had the overwhelming feeling there was more to his visit than he'd let on, especially if the dark circles beneath his eyes and the slightly weary air about him was anything to go by.

She turned, making her way to the flat, stopping dead in her tracks, her brows knitting together. How did he know her name?